A Man called Grumpy

Free from a toxic and marginalized group identity, a famous personality speaks his mind.

Hi. I’m Grumpy and I’m an alcoholic. I want to thank Bob and Stu for inviting me to speak at this meeting. 

Guess I should begin by saying that I didn’t start out as ‘Grumpy’. I mean, I admit I’m not always in a good mood. But my choice for a nickname, if I’d had any kind of a say in the matter, would have been “Sullen”. I love the way it has a haunted, slightly spooky feeling, like one of those sexy vampires in Twilight. And believe me, I could have used the extra mystique.

In high school, I not only wasn’t ‘Grumpy’, I was thought of as a wild man. In fact, my high school year book famously said that the party didn’t officially start until I arrived. Yes, there were a few kids who were suspicious of my unwavering high spirits. “No one can be that happy.” I heard one kid mutter behind my back. “He’s got to be hiding something.” said his friend. They weren’t wrong.

I denied the truth until that one spring break where my college roommates and I took shrooms and camped out in the desert. That was the first time I realized I was basing my whole identity on trying NOT to be my father, Heinrich. As a boy, I worshipped the way he always saw the dark side of everything. His answer to “Good Morning” would usually be “For who?”  He was a popular vaudeville comedian when he was a younger man, always ready with a quip or a zinger. Unfortunately for me, by the time I was born, he was 73 years old and had replaced juggling and unicycle riding with cocktails and nasty remarks.  And once he started drinking, well…we’ve all done some pretty crazy things in this room but believe me, you do NOT want an inebriated 78 year old guy with a lamp balanced precariously on his forehead stumbling toward you, smelling like a bar and a urinal.

By the time I graduated high school, the whole idea of even trying to make people laugh pissed me off. When my Dad enrolled me in a ‘clown college’ so I could carry on the family legacy, I played along because I was trying to please him. And, whew, good luck with that. I still have PTSD from the horror of being forced to pile into that tiny car with eleven full grown men, most of whom did not bathe. Many are the nights at three in the morning when I still wake up with flashbacks of the sickeningly sweet and pungent smell of soiled clown suits mixed with men’s cologne. Imagine being stuck in the trunk of a miniature car, gagging and gasping for breath, wedged under six sweaty men in grease paint. And then, when the car finally stopped and we were allowed to get out and breathe, imagine the confusion I felt listening to the crowd give me the biggest laugh of my life. I’d stand there, nauseated and trembling with rage, only to hear the crowd chanting “Grumpy! Grumpy! Look at the Grumpy clown.” Those audiences are the ones who gave me my accursed name. They also gave me my first standing ovation. Talk about a confusing and incoherent narrative!

It wasn’t until my 40’s that I realized that this ‘Grumpy’ routine I’d now begun to rely on was not only the first time I felt love and acceptance but also had all the earmarks of clinical depression. By then I’d been self-medicating, day and night for 20 years, swigging from a canteen full of straight Everclear that I wore as part of my Grumpy costume.

That was when I decided to get the hell out of show business so I took a job as a miner. By retreating to the very bowels of the earth, I assumed I might finally be left alone. But of course, that was also where I met all the others. It was after work, one night, and we were seated at the same roulette table in the casino down the block from the mine. Because everyone was sitting down, I didn’t realize we were all the same height. What a shock when a group of us got up to go to the men’s room, and it turned out I was actually one of the taller ones.

At first they seemed like a nice, lighthearted bunch of guys. So when they told me they had a room for rent, it sounded like a good idea. And the price was definitely right! I realize that seven adult men in a four room craftsman house in the woods does sound a little iffy. Not a tidy bunch either, though neither was I. I think ‘Jolly’ is the word I would have used to describe them before I figured out that half of them were strung out and the rest were stoned. That became painfully obvious one night, when all 6 of them decided to follow my example and pick themselves a nickname.

Which brings me to something I want to clarify before I go any further. I had the beard first. I wore the knit hat first. I had the nickname first. I had no idea they were all going to buy knit hats and grow beards and take nicknames. It definitely weirded me out even though it started out as a joke. But none of us expected the names to catch on the way they did. And believe me, more than one of those guys could have claimed the nick name ‘Dopey.’ Though I have to admit I thought calling the dude with the nasty sinus infection ‘Sneezy’ was insensitive, to say the least. But I guess it was a better choice for a nickname than the one they almost gave him, which was Sleazy! To be honest, a lot of the nick names they picked made absolutely no sense. Doc? For THAT pervy guy? Believe me, I have stories. Some other time.

Next thing I knew, my identity was gone, kaput, erased. My under graduate degree in economics? Like it never happened. It doesn’t even appear on my Wikipedia page any more. Now suddenly my height has become the only thing of note about me. I was not only marginalized, but I had morphed, without my permission, in to one of ‘The Seven Dwarfs’. God grant me the serenity...

Still, things were going okay-ish until that alarmingly pale woman showed up. When I heard them calling her ‘Snow White’, I immediately assumed the worst. My first thought was ‘crazy right wing lunatic. ‘ Second guess was a coke addict. Right from the beginning, I could sense that she was not to be trusted. I think it was after she somehow talked the birds and the bunnies into helping her with the housework that I began to be unnerved by her powers. Right from the start, she had a kind of a cult-leader effect on everyone around her. ‘Controlling’ doesn’t begin to describe it. Suddenly she saw to it that SHE was in charge of everything. SHE inspected the beds. SHE controlled the dinners. Somehow, it became HER house. All I could do was stand by, helplessly, as every one of my roommates surrendered to her and became co-dependent. Thank God that so-called ‘Prince’ guy showed up to take her away. Which under normal circumstances would have caused me to worry for her because right from the start he seemed like such a sociopath. I mean, my God! That guy was all superficial charm and megalomania! But instead, I felt overwhelming gratitude. And thanks to my higher power, I knew to keep my damn mouth shut. So I just stood there smiling and waving goodbye as they rode off into the sunset. Good bye, you two! Have a nice life together!! It was one of those little miracles that we all pray for!

Which brings me to why I’m here with you, speaking tonight! I’m still trying each day to make my life manageable again. I know now that the important thing is to take things one day at a time. I definitely try to let go and let God.

So l’m looking forward to getting to know each and every one of you! But when you meet me, please remember to call me by my given name which is Milton.

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